


His Prisoner

by 3rdstarksistr



Series: The Exchange [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Some fluff too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdstarksistr/pseuds/3rdstarksistr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hound is charged with conveying Sansa Stark to the prisoner exchange for Ser Jaime Lannister in Riverrun...along with Ser Meryn Trant. He guards her, she is his prisoner. On the road though, challenges arise, and Sandor must choose what role he will play for his little bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Prisoner

Somewhere he stopped being her guard, and she his prisoner.

Maybe it was when he'd made Stranger gallop through the night to find a maester after a fever took her from the autumn rains on the road. Maybe it was even longer ago with a handkerchief to her bleeding lip. He could not say now as he draws his sword out of Meryn Trant. That'll be the last time the bloody ser will harm her. 

He looks to her, wary. She's there on the ground, shaking, holding her legs tight together as she sobs, her long red hair undone and covering her like a cloak. "It's alright now, little bird," he tells her. He could see it in the man's eyes as they left King's Landing for the exchange – what he would try to do to her. He'd kept her close, but it wasn't enough. He'd known at her first shrill cry.

He sees her look to Trant at his feet and then up at him. "You killed him," she says, stunned. 

"Aye, he won't hurt you again."

She nods, tears streaming from her eyes, as she sits up a little. "He almost..." She starts before a sob wracks through her.

He crouches down in front of her, not knowing why or what to say. He can see her blue eyes clearer now, though glassy with tears, and he's half-surprised she doesn't turn them away from his own. There's uncertainty in them, not fear, though still wild with a desperation to survive. She then says, softy, "You won't hurt me." 

He's not sure if it's a question or not, but all the same, he tells her, "No, I won't hurt you." He moves to rise, but her hand is quicker and its slight pressure on his arm stops him.

"Thank you.” He sees relief start to wash over her, a slump in her shoulders despite her still panting.

He takes her little hand in his and pulls her up with him. She's wobbly as a newborn fawn, holding tight to his hand, and she tries to hold her dress together where it must be torn. 

"Need another dress?" He asks her, and she nods, eyes downcast. He helps her over to a tree where she holds on, getting herself back to rights, and he grabs one of her extra dresses. 

Giving it to her, he moves to get the horses ready, breathing his own sigh of relief to not worry about Trant. Done, he glances over to see her dressed and watching him as he walks over to Trant's body. He takes his armor off. He'll pack that and his sword on the extra horse, worth gold. Good thing he secured most of his own from the tourney. He drags the body out towards a fallen tree and leaves it there turned over.

They head down the road soon after, his mind churning with how he’ll explain Trant’s death. A cool wind picks up, finding it’s way through his armor to chill his bones but the fresh air out here he’ll take any day over the stink of the capitol. He looks back to see the girl, sitting up on her horse, her cloak draped around her and held close to ward off the chill. She’s gotten more used to the road. He catches her eyes for a second, and his narrow as he sees the small hint of a smile she gives him. 

The winds get stronger and colder by the hour and once the sun starts to hang over the west, he can take it no more. He urges Stranger on, dragging Sansa’s mount and the other horse along, until the next inn appears on the road.

Arriving, he dismounts and goes to her. He’s done this a number of times now, not letting Trant near her, but somehow it’s different as his gloved hands find their way to her tiny waist and helps her off. Only the two of them now.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice sounding sweet to him, but he doesn’t linger. He pulls off their belongings. He’ll come back for Trant’s armor.

She’s standing there looking at him as he gets the horses sorted with the stableboy and turns toward the inn. “Why are you waiting, girl? Like the cold so bloody much, you don’t look like much of a northerner.” 

“I am more than you,” she says, and he laughs in his harsh way at her little snip. She then raises her chin and turns toward the inn, walking like a queen to the entrance as though it’s a castle and not a little hovel of an inn. At least there weren’t many other horses far as he could see.

He throws a gold dragon on the table as they enter, and the innkeep comes over quickly. Older woman with a gap-toothed smile as she looks over the girl. It falls quickly when she looks at him.

“Best room. Wine, sour red if you got it, and better be something worth eating.”

“Aye, ser,” she says.

He grits his teeth but before he can say anything, it’s Sansa touching the woman on the arm, telling her, “He’s not a ser.”

“Hound then,” the woman says, looking oddly at the girl. “Roast chicken and potatoes alright.”

He nods, saying brusquely, “Show the room already.”

As they head in the room, he drops down their belongings and looks toward the bed with longing but it’s the little bird's. He’ll be on guard again. Only a few peasants below though, maybe a travelling septon among them or merchants.

“You can sleep if you want tonight,” she suggests, and he’s surprised she guessed his thoughts. He is standing there staring at a bed like a fool as it is.

“Go down and get your meal. I’ve got to get Trant’s armor in before one of these shits makes off with it.”

She nods, heading for the door. He joins her soon after, waving one of the wenches over for a flagon of wine. He drinks deep and soon that ease to his mind he knows well starts to seep in. It takes more and more wine these days for all of it to truly fall away though.

“Thank you, truly.” He hears the girl say softly and looks over at her, too pretty for her own good, gently eating her roast chicken. He picks his up and bites into the hot flesh, juices dripping down over his chin. Her eyes widen slightly but avert just as quick.

He sucks the meat off one of the bones before telling her, “Keep it. I don’t want to die in Riverrun because the bastard wanted a fuck. Your brother won’t want you bedded before you’re wedded when I get you there. And the queen wants her brother back.”

She’s looking down at her plate again, then looks up at him about to say something but stops.

“Trust me you will be wedded soon as it is,” he says. Her eyes turn sad then as she nods. Joffrey’s probably ruined her for betrothals, he snorts. Little shit of a king. Probably wanted Meryn to ruin her.

“I’m going to sleep in that bed,” he tells her, not sure where his resolve came from. She nods to him, but he feels inclined to say, “Not much good without sleep. Don’t want to get cut down for it.”

“Of course,” she tells him as her lips turn up into a small smile. He just looks at her then, keeping his eyes on her pretty, not scared face, as he takes another draw from the next flagon. That is until it falters under his gaze.

His blasted lip starts twitching then, but he pours wine into her cup. “Drink,” he tells her.

“But,” she says.

“Do it.”

She tentatively takes the cup in her hands and takes the smallest sip he’s ever seen. Her lips pucker at the taste, and he laughs hard.

“Finish the cup, little bird. You need it after today.” She drinks again, her face scrunching at the dry taste, but at least she’s getting it down.

“Not the best Dornish red here,” he tells her.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says, “I’ve only ever had sweet wine.” She hiccups slightly, making him laugh again at how embarassed she is at herself, turning a little flushed. Or is that the wine making her color? He better be careful about getting her drunk, he thinks for a passing moment, but as he takes another long draw, he reaches over to tip her cup a little more as she drinks from it.

“Sandor,” she says in protest after, as if saying his name is normal at all, as though she’s said it before a thousand times. Her little hand comes up to cover her mouth though as she realizes what she’s said. He’s holding his breath before he shakes his head, taking in a deep breath now.

“I’m sorry,” she says next in a small voice, looking down again. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with some need to touch her, to feel her skin in his hands, and to hear her say his name again.

He sets the trenchers aside, finishing off his flagon, and looking at the girl again. Still a ways to Riverrun, but he should get his fill of the sight of her before then, who knows if he’ll see her after. Something aches in him as he says, “Little bird,” and his arm stretches over the table. He smoothes his hand over hers and down over her arm. He felt a slight twitch at the contact, but she doesn’t draw away.

He marvels at the slender arm in his hand, truly a bird’s wing he could snap, and his rough fingers stroke the ever so soft flesh on the inside of her arm. He looks up from the sight to see her eyes trained on him, her chest rising rapidly with short breaths. He withdraws from her then, scowling, and motions with his head toward the stair. He can see her hesitate, but she stands, smoothing down her skirt and walks ahead of him up the stair. He casts a threatening look at those in the cramped room before leaving. 

In the bedchamber, he makes sure the door is well secured, turning to see her sitting on the one chair. He starts pulling off his armor then. He'll sleep like the dead. 

"Wake me up in a few hours, and you can sleep then," he says.

"Alright," she says with a peep up at him.

* * *

 

He wakes to the sun streaming through the window. One of his eyes is only half-open as he heaves a long, deep breath. Hadn't slept like that in ages. Wasn't even truly drunk. Wait, did the little bird not wake him? He looks over to the chair, but his eye catches on a copper hue much closer. She's hugging the very edge of the bed, he smirks, and is fast asleep. She must not have been able to wake him. 

He shifts gently, and then he can smell her sweet, warm scent. Gods, she's so small next to him. His hand goes up to fan out her hair, amazed at how soft like silk it is. She'd tried to comb it out away from them on the road, but he always watched her. He inhales again deeply, but he freezes as his hand stops on a tangle and tugs it slightly. Fuck, is she awake? He starts to suspect as she doesn’t stir but turns even more rigid next to him.

He closes his hand over her side and turns her over to find two wide, uncertain blue eyes meeting his. They’re also red though.

“You’ve been crying?”

She nods, her face scrunching as two tears stream out of her eyes. Is she so afraid of him?

“I won’t…” He starts, drawing his hand away from her further.

“It’s not that,” she cuts in. “I…I dreamed I was in the woods, and he was there. I ran and he chased after me. I kept going but he grabbed me, and forced me down. You weren’t there, but I woke up. I thought he might be here, and I was so afraid until I realized he was gone now.” He’s surprised she turns into him then, her eyes almost pleading.

Without much thought, his arms go around her and pull her against him. She doesn’t flinch, resting her head on his arm. Her tears he can feel soak into his tunic. He runs his fingers through her hair along her back over and over until she seems to be at peace, nestled against him, her little body warm and soft.

He looks down to see her eyes closed, and he smirks, she’s back asleep. Her lips part as she breaths out a light sigh that warms his blood. Gods, she’s right here. 

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, and her eyes open lazily. His thumb is probably rough against her cheekbone, but he strokes it anyways. “So pretty,” he tells her, and he’s surprised to see her lips turn up into a little smile. Her eyes are almost too bright now looking at him. He’s never quite seen her like this.

She says, “Thank you again. I know you said you didn’t do it for me, but…” His hand tenses on her face as he stops her words with his lips on hers. She tenses at first, surprised. He is hungry for her though, and he pulls her tight against his chest contorting her head back as he presses his lips harder, then drawing on her lower lip. He kisses down to her neck and that’s when he senses something loose in her and she melts into his arms.

He inhales deep, taking in her sweet smell, as he trails back up to her mouth. He stops right before them. Her eyes closed, she inclines slightly to meet his lips, pleasing him greatly, but he doesn’t let her, instead he tells her, “Say my name.”

Her pretty blue eyes open to look at him, then she softly says in the sweetest whisper, “Sandor.” He kisses her then, covering her mouth, and he feels heat run through him at her soft moan, her lips yielding and parting under his influence. He delves into her then, pleased further at the pressure she responds with.

His hands start to run down over her, one pressing on her hip to lay back as he moves over her. She halts pulling back as much as she can. “It’s alright, little bird,” he tells her, and the trust in her eyes as he looks at her, strikes a deep part of him he never knew was there. He sits up then, looking at her lying before him. He then starts to tug down her dress.

“Sandor?” She questions, worry in her voice as her hands move to stop his own.

“I want to see more of you,” he tells her. She looks concerned but submits. He tugs it down to her waist, and she slips her arms out of it. “Perfect,” he says without thinking, looking over her perfect form, those precious nipples at attention for him. Each hand covers them, and he lightly touches one, playing with her pretty pink tips.

She whines slightly, so he presses harder, watching her squirm under his touch. Gods, he’s getting too hard. He’s half a mind to take her right here, but she wouldn’t want that. This is like to be too much for her as it is.

He pulls off his tunic under her watchful eyes, and then lowers over her. Her skin soft as a flower petal is pressed under his own muscled and hard. He runs his hands around her, held up on his elbows as he bears down to kiss her again. He’s relentless in his hunger for her, tasting the sweet honey she’s made of and taking as much as he’ll allow himself. She’s meeting each kiss now, his little bird, whimpering and moaning under him, more wanton than he’d ever thought.

He can’t stop himself from pressing his hardening cock against her, but she freezes then. He moves off of her surprising himself as he pants, want coursing through him like never before. “Fucking hells,” he curses, raising a hand to go through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he hears her say quietly. He turns to her then and rubs a hand over her lithe little arm. She looks so young, like the maiden she is that he can’t push her further.

“It’s alright, little bird,” he says, “let me get up.” He moves over her again, a smirk as he stops for a moment, pressing a quick kiss to her before he gets out of bed. Fuck, he thinks again at the pressure to fuck her. He splashes the now cold water in the basin on himself.

“May we break our fast, Sandor?” He hears her say, so sweetly from the bed. Guess she didn’t get enough attention, he smirks to himself. He can’t take much more of this without bedding her himself.

“Aye, little bird,” he tells her, turning to see her twisted in the sheet with her dress pulled back up. A pleased smile is on her face as she looks out toward the window. She’s never been more pretty, content as she looks right now. He sits down next to her, his fingers trailing down her arms, then tracing over her collarbone. She takes one of his hands and places it high on her chest, closing her eyes with a smile.

He feels a tremor go through him, something loose itself almost. He could never walk away from her now. What the fuck is he going to do? Steal her away. Would she go with him? No, she wants to see her family too bad. The fucking family that would kill him now for ever laying a hand on her highborn maiden skin. Fuck.

A resolve takes root in him, and he tells her, “I want you. You should be mine.”

She opens her eyes, uncertain at him again. He strokes her face then, his eyes serious, watching her. “What about everything? The Lannisters? Joffrey?”

“Fuck it all,” he says, pulling her up into his lap, but she doesn’t seem convinced. There’s still a ways to Riverrun, and he’ll figure it out. His mouth finds that spot on her neck that makes her ease into him with a little whimper. If she could be this sweet, this supple in his arms, he will make her his before they ever set foot in that damn castle. Not a prisoner but his all the same.


End file.
